


Lust for Life

by facetofcathy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1000-5000 Words, Community: spnflashfic, Incest, M/M, Sex Positive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-31
Updated: 2009-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facetofcathy/pseuds/facetofcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He pulled the towel off, snapped it out and left a stinging welt across Dean's chest.   Dean hadn't been ready for it, that's all, and he'd taught Sam that move, dammit, and what the hell?  "Are you high?"</em></p><p>Sam has had his head messed with in this story, but not to my mind, in a way that causes him to lose the ability to consent.  Your mileage may vary on this.  This is your only warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lust for Life

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [spnflashfic](http://community.livejournal.com/spnflashfic/) Seven Deadly Sins Challenge on Livejournal.

Dean woke, lurching upright, heart hammering. He slammed the alarm, cutting Iggy Pop off mid-word. The sun was shining in the window of the motel in wherever the hell they were, right through the gaps in the curtains he distinctly remembered closing the night before, hitting him right in the eyes. The bathroom door swung open, bounced against the wall, and he turned to see Sam kick it wide open again.

Sam stayed in the doorway, hands hooked casually over the top of the door frame. His thumbs beat a rhythm on the wood trim, a quick snap of a beat he matched with his foot on the cheap vinyl floor. Steam poured out around him in luxurious waves, and his hair was damp and curling. He'd shaved his face as smooth as a baby's ass, and he was dressed in a scrap of towel that clung to his hips. "Get your pretty ass out of bed, sunshine," he said cheerfully. "The day's a waisting."

Dean didn't answer, just stared, and Sam stalked out into the main room, arms loose, long legs swinging out, hips swinging. He pulled the towel off, snapped it out and left a stinging welt across Dean's chest. Dean hadn't been ready for it, that's all, and he'd taught Sam that move, dammit, and what the hell? "Are you high?"

"You—up," Sam said, "shower, and shave for a change, you bum." He aimed the towel again.

Dean could either grab it and end up with Sam looming over him completely naked, or... He ducked and rolled up on to his feet on the far side of the bed. "Christo," he said, aiming for a tone he could pass off as a joke if he needed to.

Sam threw his head back and laughed, actually slapped his thigh, big hand snapping against bare skin. "I'm not possessed, Dean. Get moving, it's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and I want to have some fun."

Dean inched around the bed, keeping Sam beyond even his arm's length as he retreated to the bathroom. Sam's eyes looked fine, no black, no yellow, no dilated pupils. Sam caught him looking and laughed again. He turned the crappy radio back on and started singing along at the top of his lungs, so Dean hurried into the shower. They only had so much time before someone complained about Sam's attempts at singing, and their asses would be on the asphalt.

Dean did shave, not because Sam had told him to, but because Sam was outside banging around and singing, not as loudly, and laughing occasionally, and Dean was, he was man enough to admit, stalling. He was also considering calling Bobby, but he didn't want to have the conversation that started out, _Sam's in a good mood, Bobby, what's wrong with him?_ That would just descend into depths of sarcasm he didn't need Bobby to provide.

By the time he was done shaving, things seemed to have calmed down out in Sammy-land, so he covered himself with the only too-small towel that wasn't clumped on the floor—Sam had suddenly become a slob as well as maddeningly chipper—and cautiously opened the door.

Sam had the knife Dean kept under his pillow, and he cursed himself a damn fool for not bringing it into the bathroom with him while he calculated the quickest route to the nightstand and the nearest gun. Sam was still mostly naked, though he'd found a skimpy pair of briefs from somewhere, and Dean had a horrible feeling he recognized the smooth, black cotton. Sam was just standing there watching the way the sun reflected off the mirror-sheen of the knife blade.

"Dean," Sam said, catching sight of him and grinning happily, "want me to make you some?"

Dean froze, his mouth keeping time with the stuttering confusion in his head. "What, Sam—ah, what?"

"I made cut-offs, Dean," Sam said, slowly and carefully, and he held up his most threadbare pair of jeans, almost bleached white in places. The mile-long denim legs—and Dean had always wanted to ask Missouri to rummage around in Sam's head and find out why the hell he needed to wear pants that were too long—pooled around his feet.

"No, ah, I'm good, Sam." Dean scrubbed his hands through his hair. Sam was still just looking at him when he pulled his hands away from his face, but the expression on his face was different, it was almost measuring, considering. "Sam, did you eat anything, drink anything strange?"

"I'm fine, Dean—great in fact. Come on get dressed, I have an idea."

"A job?"

Sam laughed at him again. "Not a job, Dean. Today's not a day for jobs. Just a plan. You'll like it, I promise."

Dean rooted into his bag, that had definitely been rifled, and found a pair of jeans and a nesting set of shirts. He tucked his gun into his waistband, pulled his top shirt over it, and turned around.

Sam was watching him, just standing by the other bed watching him, like he had been doing it the whole time, little smile on his lips, eyes lit up like he was burning with something Dean couldn't name. Sam's shorts didn't look any more appropriate hanging off his bony hips and emphasizing his legs. He'd stuffed his feet into an old pair of running shoes without bothering with socks, and he'd found a tee shirt, blinding white and way too tight, and Dean had a feeling he recognized it too. Sam looked just like he had when he was ten, and he'd refused to wear long pants, even when they'd driven out of southern heat into northern chill. He looked just like that, except for how he also looked like a rent boy—an expensive one.

"You won't need that gun, Dean," Sam said.

Dean grumbled his dissension, swallowed a couple of aspirin dry; Sam's incessant smiling was giving him a headache, probably the glare off his damn teeth. He shoved his wallet in his pants. collected up his change, lighter, vial of holy water, which he was sorely tempted to squirt at a certain smiling idiot, and dug around on the nightstand and the floor, and yesterday's pants, and—"God dammit, Sam, gimme the keys."

"Uh-uh. I'm driving today."

He hated Sam's driving; it made his nerves jump. "No," he said firmly, "you're not. You're going to sit and not talk until I've had coffee and you've returned to normal, and–"

"I'm driving, Dean," Sam said, his voice carrying the firm slap of finality that only their father had ever made work with Dean. Sam's grin spread across his face again. "After all," he said, like he was trying to talk Dean into it now, "I know where we're going."

They headed out to the car, leaving behind a mess of dirty linens and towels, a first since Dean had stopped travelling alone. Sam usually made the bed even if they were running out on the bill. Dean let Sam drive them to the nearest diner for breakfast; he planned on scooping the keys back before they were done eating, but they didn't go to a diner or a convenience store, or even the gas station. They pulled up in front of a bakery with little tables sitting in the sun, waiters in bright-coloured polo shirts and crisp chinos—even the women—and the smell of deep dark black coffee and sugar and spices spilling out the door.

Sam smiled at their waiter, and their waiter smirked back with a little head tilt and a glance over at Dean, and Sam laughed and ordered for them both. It wasn't until the waiter-kid—who was going to get told if he kept up the overly friendly act—had gone back inside that Dean realized he'd never heard the comforting words bacon or sausage in Sam's order.

Their coffees were dropped off with a completely unnecessary amount of lingering and smiling from the waiter, and Dean lost himself in the thick black richness. One thing even he had to admit, a froufy place like this made damn fine coffee, really got your motor running. "I should put some premium in her," Dean said, admiring the way the sun shone off the triple wax job he'd put on his baby when he'd taken her back from Sam's indifferent care. Sam laughed at him again, but it was expected under the circumstances.

Their food came. Sam's a plate of melon slices, arranged in concentric circles of pink and gold and green, littered with strawberries and grapes and a few things Dean couldn't identify. Dean kept his eyes on his omelette while Sam demolished the sticky pile of fruit. He ignored the sounds Sam was making and the runnels of juice on his chin. He didn't say anything at all, beyond barking an order for another coffee when the waiter got too close to Sam and his fruitgasm.

Dean hadn't managed to get the keys off of Sam, the bastard had proved too slippery to catch, so he'd climbed into the passenger's side, and they'd roared down the highway—Sam had stopped and filled her up with super premium—windows down, music blaring and Sam's hand tap-tap-tapping on the gearshift, his other hand in an easy grip on the steering wheel. This was not the normal Sam behind the wheel. Normal Sam drove too slow, shifted too late, braked too soon, and left Dean wanting to wrench the wheel out of his hands. Whatever the hell was up with Sam, whatever had gotten under his skin, he was in perfect tune with the car, running her smooth and easy over the road, swinging out around the potholes and shifting on the hills and corners like a pro.

Dean had an idea where they were going, which was confirmed when the air took on the taste of water, and they passed a little town, nothing more than a collection of small houses and a convenience store that advertised bait for sale. A couple of miles down the road, Sam turned down an unmarked hard-packed dirt road that gradually turned to sand. The road opened up to blue water and a scrap of sun-kissed beach, and Sam pulled over under a tree. He got out and stretched to touch the sky. Dean stood, leaning on the hood, watching Sam commune with the sun. The long-sleeved shirt Dean had on was too hot, prickling at his skin, but he couldn't hide the gun at his waist without it.

"You don't need the gun today, Dean," Sam said, head still tipped back, eyes closed.

"You reading minds now, Sam?"

"Would I want to read your mind, Dean? Always figured it would be a illuminating experience."

Dean didn't know what to say, wasn't sure just what it was Sam was implying, because he obviously was, but Dean wasn't planning on asking.

"I'm going to go soak up some sun," Sam said. "You can stay here and work on your paranoia if you like but," Sam turned and his eyes fluttered open, his gaze dragged up Dean from feet to face, "I think it looks pretty nicely developed already."

Dean flushed—it was the hot sun—and Sam loped off down the last bit of road and along the beach until he disappeared from sight behind the scrubby dune grass. Dean wrestled the shirt off, tossed the gun under the seat, and followed, as uncomfortable with Sam out of sight as he'd been with him right in front of his face all morning.

He found Sam, shirt doing duty as a pillow, stretched out full-length on the sand. His eyes were closed, but he smiled slightly when Dean sat beside him. Jeans and boots were not made for lolling on the sand, but Dean hated the beach anyway. His eyes never stopped scanning the endless horizon, and his ears strained for the sounds of other cars on the road.

A big hand caught him, and he was down, sprawled in the sand, and Sam was looming over him, miles of skin, slick with sweat and adorned with old scars, familiar and known, and new marks that had stories he hadn't been told. His eyes fixed on the tattoo on Sam's chest, proof against possession—proof that this was Sam, not some demon, not some spirit, not something to hunt.

"Relax, Dean, enjoy the day," Sam said and pushed him flat into the sand, broad hand against his chest, and he burned cold when Sam withdrew the touch.

He tried. He lay stiff, listening to the sounds of the water and seagulls, and the occasional far-off trill of voices—children squealing in the waves closer to town, maybe. Sam was indolent beside him, easy and loose and glowing in the sun, and he didn't speak, but didn't seem to sleep either. Dean kept his eyes open, not wanting to see the scenes his mind's eye could dish up. Tension crawled up his spine.

After about an hour of this relaxation, Sam bounced up and hauled Dean upright with a firm grip on his arm. "I saw a bar down the road. Looked like the best sort of dive. Let's go get you some whiskey."

"Greasy fries," Dean said, smiling through his relief.

"If there is a god, they'll have onion rings."

The bar was perfect, battered old furniture, nearly empty, shadowed from the sun, with cheap, cold beers and smokey, sweet whiskey to chase them down. There was a scuffed-up pool table, and Sam challenged Dean to a game. They stalked each other around the table, more competitive and focused with not a dime at stake than they could ever be with a mark and hundreds of dollars. Dean watched Sam strike the ball with confidence, sure and easy, but hitting harder when he needed to, and that was the thing that had always held back Sam's game, his inability to just go for it when he needed to. There was nothing holding him back today.

"You'd bankrupt me if we were playing for money," Dean said, watching Sam clear the table for the third time.

Sam looked up at him from where he was still bent over after taking the last shot. He smiled slowly, straightened up and took a long drink. "Should have played for favours," he said in a voice of sun-drenched whiskey heat.

"Sam, what–"

"I'm just enjoying the day, Dean."

"Yeah, well how be we enjoy it over at the bar, I'm starving."

"Sure, maybe the kitchen is open by now, and you can have those fries."

Sam ignored the cutlery again and devoured his onion rings, pausing to lick salt from his fingers and from his lips, smiling when he caught Dean watching.

"What's going on?" Dean said.

Sam drained his beer before answering, wiped his mouth with a swipe of his hand. "Life is beautiful," he said, which was no answer at all.

"Okay, Sammy, I think you've had enough sun today. How about we head back, and this time, I'm driving."

"Oh, yeah?" Sam patted the keys bulging in the pocket of his shorts and stood up. "Take your best shot." He sauntered out of the bar, head up and shoulders back, moving with this hip slinking walk that had the only woman in the place, the waitress who'd been occupied with a table of regulars, staring after him hungrily. Dean threw some money on the bar and followed. He let Sam drive again.

Sam had insisted on stopping for treats, his exact words, and they had bags of chips and beer and god knows what all. The girl that had checked them out had looked like she'd wanted to climb Sam to see what the weather was like at higher altitudes, and Dean had nearly growled at her to hand over the bags so they could leave.

Inside the motel, Dean locked the door behind him, watched as Sam peeled off his white shirt, stretched his arms up again, fingers brushing the low ceiling. He pulled a soda out of one of the bags, drank it down in one long go, throat working.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean said, uncomfortable with the silence and the gloomy, shadowed room.

Sam looked back over his shoulder, smiled knowingly. "Enjoying the day, like I said." He turned around, not taking his eyes off Dean, tracking his small movements, every nervous gesture Dean couldn't suppress. Sam walked across the room—Dean hadn't moved from the door—slow slink of steps muffled by the threadbare carpet. He still had sand stuck to the skin of his legs. He just kept coming—right up into Dean's space, which contracted for Sam, but not that damn much. "Want to soak up all the sun, Dean. All the heat," he said, and he reached out and trailed his thumb across Dean's mouth.

The brief touch was shocking, electric. "What the hell?" Dean said. He pushed Sam away, shoved at his chest, fingers skidding over hot skin.

"Want it."

"Sam, seriously, you've been weird all day, and this is out there, man, so"—Sam threw his hands up, backed up a pace—"I'm thinking I should be looking for some sign of a hex or curse or–"

"I can smell it on you, Dean. Smell it, see it, feel it, feel how much you want." Sam kept backing up as he spoke.

"Sam," Dean shouted.

"Not going to make you, not going to touch you," Sam said and turned and headed for the bathroom, dropping his shorts and his underwear on the way.

Dean heard the shower start and he began a systematic search of the room, he was running his hand between Sam's bed and the wall when Sam wandered back, half-erect, hair curling from the steam, beads of water speckled across his arms and chest. "You need to stay here," Dean said urgently. He couldn't let Sam go out like this, he'd be hitting on everyone in sight.

"Not going anywhere," Sam said and he sat on the bed, back against the wall, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. He made a noise of pleasure as he stretched his arms overhead, and Dean ducked his head to hide his flush. "But if you're worried, you can tie me to the bed—might be fun."

"Sam!"

Sam watched him search the nightstand between the beds, and then he leaned over and said in quiet rumble, "Have you ever?"

"What, Sam, tied up a crazy man who's been cursed or spelled or something? Yeah, sometimes it's been you, if you recall."

Sam laughed again, low and happy, almost smug sounding, and Dean was really tired of Sam laughing at him. "I meant, have you ever fucked a man," he said.

"Jesus, Sammy."

"It's different," Sam said, and Dean moved on to the desk against the far wall, started with the drawers, pulling them out, checking the bottoms and sides. "Beyond the obvious I mean. You can use your strength differently, let go a little. It's liberating, freeing."

Dean finished with the desk and bent down to examine the small table that had been spread with notes and clippings for the job they'd just finished. Sam kept talking. Reciting the fucking ode to gay sex or something. On and on, and Dean tried to tune him out but he couldn't not hear things like _slide of skin against skin_ and _slick wet heat_, and Dean couldn't look at the long, lean naked length of his brother stretched out on the bed, so he abandoned the main room and took his search to the bathroom.

He was half afraid Sam would sneak out on him, and he knew he couldn't let him, even if it might solve the problem if Sam just went somewhere, got laid, got whatever the hell was in him out of his system. He left the bathroom door open part way. He tried cold water on his flushed face, but it wasn't helping him to cool down.

Sam's voice floated in after him, pitched to carry, but tight and breathy. Sam was getting himself worked up too—great. Dean finally gave in and listened; he hadn't found anything, no hex bag, no sign of a spell, no sulfur, no break in the salt lines.

Sam finished his damn dissertation on sucking cock, sounded like he knew what he was talking about, and launched into a new topic. "When you fuck a guy, Dean, really fuck him—it's so hot and tight and, god, it's perfect. But if he comes, if you _make him_ come," Sam said, "it's like a perfect flexing grip, that just—man there's nothing like it, it's amazing, and from the other side, the sensations—talk about overload, makes being Tased feel like nothing, Dean."

Dean was going to have to go out there and make him stop, make him quit talking. He was going to have to stuff something in that big wide mouth, and—Jesus, he hung his head, couldn't look at himself in the mirror, didn't want to see his flushed, hungry expression. Sam's voice grew quieter, and Dean caught himself straining after the words, the words he was supposed to stop, and Sam made a low moan of pain or—Dean pushed the door open all the way and stepped into the other room.

Sam had laid out some of his treats on the bed, things he must have snuck in when Dean hadn't been looking. The string of condoms seemed ambitious, there were at least five, and Sam had the lube in hand, fingers working in his own ass, his head thrown back while he worked himself deep and hard, sounds of pleasure falling from his parted lips.

"Ah hell, Sam," Dean said.

Sam snapped his eyes open, and they were dark with heat, but there was nothing not Sam there, no sign of anything but the pure hot desire of a man who knew exactly what he wanted. "You want me to stop, Dean, you'll have to come over here and make me."

Dean had to make him stop talking.

Sam didn't grab for him like he'd been expecting, just kept his hands knotted in the bed cover, while Dean fell in to that wicked, sweet mouth, and he wasn't touching Dean anywhere else, just stroking with his tongue, and then the noises, the moaning started up again, louder and vibrating against Dean's lips. Dean pulled away, wrenched away and stumbled back, his heart was pounding like he was running for his life, and Sam just looked at him, watched him, waited.

Letting Sam leave this room was not an option. Dean leaving, leaving Sam alone, was not an option. Leaving Sam alone was never an option. Dean ripped his shirt in half trying to get it off. One boot sailed through the bathroom door and clattered into the tub. He had never felt such blessed, glorious relief as when he got his jeans open.

Sam grabbed him this time, big hands spanning his hips and teeth and tongue everywhere, neck and shoulder, and his ear was never going to be the same. Sam was so hot, skin burning against Dean's fingers, face flushed, his chest heaving, and his hands never stopped moving. The taste of his skin, it bloomed on Dean's tongue, and he'd never be able to lose the memory of that taste, he'd always, always hunger for it.

Sliding inside Sam was free-fall and ecstasy, tight and slick and hot, and the moaning—whose voice, whose lips were making those sounds? His hands wanted to touch, to know all Sam's places, and he needed, god, he needed to feel so wanted, and Sam was right, Christ, was he right, the fluttering, spasming muscle clenching him while Sam found even more things to say, whispering in his ear, still, while Dean bent over him, shuddering and spent. Sam's hands were keeping him up, stopping him from falling, holding on.

Dean sat in the chair watching Sam sleep. He was dead to the world still, even with the morning light painting his body in harsh white stripes. He had expanded to fill the whole bed after Dean had gotten up, limbs thrown wide, and he slept deeply, untroubled.

A knock sounded at the door, quiet enough that Sam didn't stir. Dean slid out of the chair, gun in hand, and he eased the door open. His visitor was the waitress from the little dive bar on the beach, Dean recognized her cheap red-dyed hair and sunny smile immediately, and he took a step outside. She was standing, hip cocked against the door frame, stick of a lollipop in the corner of her mouth. "Hey, Dean, how's tricks?" she said and smirked.

"You–" Dean dove for the room, but she was too fast, too strong, and Dean was pinned against the wall, gun clattering to the pavement. The parking lot was empty, the street deserted.

"What did you do to us?" Dean hissed.

"To you, Dean? Nothing. Not one single thing. Now, Sammy on the other hand..."

"I'm going to fucking kill you slow, you bastard, what did you do?"

"Now, now, Dean," she said, and the air seemed to shimmer, and the familiar, despised face of the trickster appeared, smirking around the lollipop. "I didn't do anything bad, I just lifted some of Sam's burdens for a day."

Dean strained against the trickster's grip, futilely, and tried a kick that the evil bastard danced away from with ease.

"See, I like Sam," he said, "You, you're a pain in the ass, but Sam, I still like, even if he did try to kill me. But everyone's got their finger in the old Sam Winchester pie, don't they? Demons and angels, and gods and monsters, not to mention dear old Dad—they've all had an agenda, all want a piece of him, want to pull his strings, want to use him or use him up or just kill him." The trickster leaned in close, spoke right into Dean's ear. "So you see, Dean, I just took all that away for one day, pulled off all those chains that bind him down, let him walk upright for one single day. Is that so bad, Dean?"

Dean started struggling again, and the trickster said, "You certainly enjoyed yourself."

"And now," Dean demanded.

"When he wakes up, he'll be the old Sam, weighed down with all that guilt and expectation and obligation, everybody's favourite pawn—all those chains will be back."

"Will he remember?"

The trickster laughed, cruelly, loudly. "Of course, Dean," He said, and Dean hadn't expected that mercy, but he may have hoped. The trickster shook his head, and lowered his voice again. "Ask yourself this, how many of those chains holding him down are gripped in your hot little hands, hmm?"

Dean bucked up with his whole body, struggling to break free, and he sprawled on the pavement, losing some skin off his knees. The trickster was gone. "And how many chains are looped around my neck?" he said to the empty air.

The radio blared from inside the room. They'd never turned the alarm off, and it was playing some emo song that Sam probably knew all the words to. Dean picked grit from his palms and waited for the song to cut off mid-word before he climbed to his feet and went inside to face the music.


End file.
